


When It Was Only Us

by SinnamonSpider



Series: Only Us 'verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, De-Aged Dean Winchester, De-Aged Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, First Time, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Is it masturbation if it's with another version of yourself?, M/M, Self-cest, Sibling Incest, Threesome - M/M/M, Time Travel, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2018-12-10 18:33:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11697468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinnamonSpider/pseuds/SinnamonSpider
Summary: Sam is glaring at him and Dean is puzzled for half a second before he realizes: this Sam and Dean aren’t there yet. It’ll take two more years, a demon deal reaching cash-in, and a bottle of whisky - the good kind, no time left to waste on the bad shit - before they get there. Right now, it’s still just sideways looks and godawful tension, sitting a bit too close and lingering a little too long.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ninni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ninni/gifts).



> "I’m rewatching season 1 and fucckkk all I can think of is how I want current sam and dean to bend season 1 sam and dean over and show them a good time" - holdmesamthatwasbeautiful, or Ninni, posted this on Tumblr. 
> 
> I took her inspiration and ran with it.
> 
> Title from "Only Us" by Paperwhite.
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply. Feedback is life.

They land hard and Dean staggers just a bit - time travel has never been easy on him and the older he gets, the more it shakes him. Beside him, Sam gives him a sharp look, but doesn’t reach out, satisfied that Dean is fine without his help. They straighten up and survey their surroundings.

Generic motel room, this one with a horrible nautical theme. Somewhere on the coast, then - or else the most landlocked location possible. Motel decor can be particularly strange. They’ve seen it all.

It looks vaguely familiar, but then of course it would. They’ve been here. They _are_ here; their past selves, twelve years younger. The selves they need to warn.

Of course, they don’t know what they need to warn themselves of. Or how it will help. Jack hadn’t been very explicit. Apparently, nephilim weren’t big on explanations.

“I don’t like this,” Dean growls, casting about the room. Their duffels are on their respective beds, so they’ve checked in already. They could be back at any moment. “I know myself. I tend to come in swinging.”

“So you’ll know how to block yourself,” Sam replies. “Dean, this is twelve years ago. You’re trying to tell me you can’t take 26-year-old you?”

“No, I’m saying that I know myself. I’m a tricky bastard. Who knows what I’ll do?”

Sam opens his mouth to reply, but he’s cut off when the door swings open.

There’s the eerie sense of looking into some kind of funhouse mirror, but one that makes you look younger instead of warping your features. Dean watches shock and disbelief cross his own features, knowing that deadly focus is next.

Sure enough, Younger Dean’s jaw sets and his eyes narrow. He’s got a gun on them in a second and Dean takes the time to admire his reflexes.

“Dean, wait!” Younger Sam shouts, reaching for his back pocket and drawing out a flask that they all know is full of holy water. He douses the older Sam and Dean with the liquid and holds out an arm to stop Younger Dean, who is about to advance.

“We’re not demons,” Sam assures them, shaking holy water from his hair. Dean wipes his face, not taking his eyes off his younger self. Can’t trust the bastard. He would know.  

Younger Sam slides a knife from his boot. He extends it to Sam, who reaches for it without hesitation. “Or shapeshifters,” he continues, passing the silver blade to Dean, who waves it before Younger Dean’s untrusting eyes. Younger Dean reaches out to snatch the knife away. “Yeah, great,” he says coldly. “So you know some tricks. Well, we do too.”

“Dean,” Younger Sam insists and Dean has to consciously stop himself from looking over to his younger younger brother in reply. “Dean, think about it. They’re not demons or shapeshifters. I don’t know anything else that can take on the shape of another person. Do you?”

Younger Dean hesitates and goes to lower his gun, but he brings it back up sharply when Dean can’t suppress his sarcastic chuckle any longer. Sam gives him a furious look. “Really?” he demands.

“What’s funny, old man?” Younger Dean snaps, taking a step forward. Dean glares at him. “You are, you cocky little shit.” He reaches out for the gun, but Younger Dean moves like lightning, spinning out of reach. Dean anticipates the move, of course, and gets himself into a headlock. The gun clatters to the floor. Sam and his younger counterpart wear an identical look of mingled dismay and disgust: one just has a few more wrinkles.

Tension - energy - is thrumming through Younger Dean where he struggles in Dean’s grip. It’s like holding back a river: power, barely restrained, waiting to be unleashed. He feels his own body weight shift and knows he’s about to receive a bone-shattering kick to the knee, so he locks up tighter around the quivering form of his younger self.

“Dean, enough!” Only the deeper timbre of the voice tells him that it’s his Sam, current Sam, who has spoken. He and Younger Dean both look up in tandem, hardwired response to the sharp voice of their little brother. Younger Sam looks over too, comprehension dawning on his face. “Let him go,” Sam says softly. “He won’t hurt you.”

“My ass,” Dean disagrees, but he releases Younger Dean, who darts away from him, rubbing his neck with a look of outrage on his face. Younger Sam comes to his side immediately, a hand on his shoulder. “Dean, think,” he says, low and urgent. “Think about it.”

He looks up at Sam and Dean. “What year?”

Sam grins wearily at himself. “2017.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Younger Dean blurts, back to shock. “We live that long?”

Sam shoots Dean a sideways glance, then looks back at the boys. “Sort of. More or less.”

Younger Sam’s brow furrows and Dean almost smiles, because he can see where the creases will set in, deeper each year. “What does that mean, exactly?” Younger Sam asks curiously.

“You’ll find out,” Dean says ominously. “Now, are we all agreed on not killing each other?”

Younger Sam nods quickly, hazel eyes wide, and Dean can see all the questions behind them, banging on his lips, itching to come out. He can’t contain the smile this time and when Younger Sam catches it, his cheeks turn pink and he looks away almost shyly. Dean feels a ripple of attraction race down his spine.

But Sam is glaring at him, shaking his head minutely and Dean is puzzled for half a second before he realizes: this Sam and Dean aren’t there yet. It’ll take two more years, a demon deal reaching cash-in, and a bottle of whisky - the good kind, no time left to waste on the bad shit - before they get there. Right now, it’s still just sideways looks and godawful tension, sitting a bit too close and lingering a little too long. Poor bastards, Dean thinks. He remembers how torturous these years were.

Younger Dean watches this interaction and there’s murder in his green eyes, but he just stoops to pick up his dropped gun, tossing it onto the bed haphazardly and flopping down beside it. “Why are you here?” he demands, all bluster and brawn.

“Wish we knew,” Sam sighs. “The...being that sent us here, he didn’t really...tell us much.” He rakes a hand through his hair and Dean watches Younger Dean’s eyes follow the motion. Bitch about it he might, but Dean’s always loved Sam’s hair, the longer the better, and he knows the effect the shoulder-length locks are having on himself.

“How do you get back?” Younger Sam asks, sinking onto his bed as well. Sam shrugs, pulling out a chair from the tiny kitchenette table and dwarfing it with his huge frame. Dean sits down next to him and crosses his arm, settling a glare on Younger Dean, who twitches his eyes away from Sam and glares back. “Not sure,” Sam goes on. “Either we’ll figure out why we’re here and do whatever it is we gotta do, or…” He trails off.

“We’ll figure it out,” Dean finishes for him. “We always do.”

“We can help,” Younger Sam offers brightly. He’s so buoyant and full of life that it nearly breaks Dean’s heart. He knows what this boy has been through, scant months ago - Jess burning on the ceiling, his life falling down around him, his brother hauling him back out on the road. He thinks back, tries to remember what they were doing right now.  

Younger Sam answers the question for him, as he goes on. “We just wrapped up a case. Haunted painting.” He shoots a look at Dean from under his bangs. “But you know, obviously.”

Ah. Sarah. That one had worked out well enough for them. Back then, he’d believed that he could divert Sam’s attention with a pretty girl, make his brother stop giving him those heated looks. It had worked, after a fashion, but it wasn’t enough, it was never enough, and Dean sees the stress in his younger counterpart, in the pained look he gives his brother. “Yeah, we can help,” Younger Dean echoes. “But first, I’m starvin’.” He stands, pulls out his keys. “Food?”

“I’ll go with you,” Sam offers. Dean gives him a death-glare, which Sam ignores with ease. Dean grits his teeth. He doesn’t want Sam off in the Impala with his decade-younger self, a self that’s been watching Sam with barely-disguised want, a self that he’s felt the tension and desire flowing through, with his own body. At the same time, he doesn’t want to be left alone with twenty-two year old Sam, all huge hazel eyes and chewed-up bottom lip - it took Dean years to break him of that habit, and to think all it took was _him_ chewing on that lip instead. He doesn’t trust himself, present or past. He - they - are faced with too much temptation.

He stands with Sam, trails him toward the door that Younger Dean has just left through. Sam pauses, turns back, catches him around the neck with a strong arm to whisper in his ear. “It’s fine. I’ll handle him. Don’t scare little me too much. Don’t tell him too much. That’s not what we’re here for.”

“We don’t know what we’re here for,” Dean hisses back. “Hurry, Sam. I don’t like any of this.”

Sam leans in to bite his earlobe, blocked from Younger Sam’s eyes by the expanse of Dean’s body. “I’ll be back.”

Then he’s gone and Dean closes the door and turns back to face his little brother.


	2. One

Sam follows Younger Dean across the parking lot toward the Impala. They’re silent as they reach the car and climb inside, as they pull out of the lot and onto the road.

From the corner of his eye, Sam observes this younger version of his brother. He knows what he looks like, of course, but while Dean is familiar with being older than Sam, Sam has never experienced being older than Dean. It’s an odd feeling, and it’s manifesting in a need to scrutinize his little big brother that’s proving difficult to ignore.

And difficult to keep inconspicuous, obviously, as Younger Dean shoots him an annoyed look. “Dude, can you not? You’re weirding me out.”

Sam flushes. “Sorry,” he says, averting his eyes and watching the road instead. “It’s just...it’s a weird situation.”

“No kidding,” Dean grouses. His hands flex on the steering wheel, an anxious tell that Sam is familiar with in his Dean, but doesn’t remember noticing when they were this young. Dean’s eyes keep flicking between the windshield and Sam, as though he can’t pick one to focus on. “You, uh, you look good, Sammy,” he says, voice rough. “Really grew up, huh?”

Sam grins despite himself. “I’d hope so. Couldn’t look like a twiggy kid forever.”

There’s a burger joint coming up on their left. Dean navigates the car through the drive-thru. He orders without looking at Sam: two double cheeseburgers with extra onions and two grilled chicken sandwiches. As they pull around to the window, Sam raises an eyebrow and Dean grins sheepishly. “Figured our tastes probably haven’t changed much, even in twelve years,” he offers. Sam chuckles. “For the most part, you’re right. We drink a bit more whisky and a little less beer, but not much else is different.”

“Classy dudes, huh?” Dean smirks. “Well, had to happen some time.”

When they get to the window, Dean fumbles for his wallet. Sam reaches over him, long arm stretched across the driver’s side to hand the girl at the register his card. Dean makes an argumentative sound, but Sam just ignores him. His outstretched arm is barely brushing Dean’s chest, but even that tiny bit of contact is raising the hairs along his skin. “My treat,” he says softly. “I know full well how tight money is for you guys, and we’re a bit better off right now.” Dean opens his mouth, but closes it again at the look on Sam’s face. “Don’t argue with your elders,” Sam says and means it teasingly, but Dean’s eyes go wide, his pupils dilating, and Sam hears him inhale sharply.

Sam grits his teeth. His reaction to Dean’s reaction is immediate and powerful, a tremor running through his whole body. He’s never gotten to be the one in charge, the dominant one, between himself and Dean. It feels amazing. And judging by Dean’s face, he doesn’t mind the role reversal one bit.

They get their food and drive off. Dean’s hands are still flexing on the wheel. Sam settles the warm, greasy bags on the seat between them, trying to build a wall, create some distance. He’s starting to understand his Dean’s nervousness. It’s not good for them to be here, with each other’s younger selves, not with the way their relationship has come to be. Too much temptation, too much chance to go back and experience something they’d denied themselves for so long. He wonders again what it is Jack sent them back here for.

“So things are...better? In 2017?” Dean’s voice cuts through Sam’s inner turmoil and he grimaces at the sound: young, hopeful, eternally optimistic. This Dean is so similar to his Dean, and yet so different. This Dean hasn’t been beaten down by the world and by circumstance, not yet. He still believes in them, in their job, in their roles in life, still thinks they’re fighting the good fight. He hasn’t watched their father’s body burn on a hunter’s pyre. He hasn’t held his little brother in his arms while he dies. He hasn’t gone to Hell and tortured souls on the rack. He hasn’t lost friend after friend - Jo and Ellen, Bobby, Kevin, Charlie. He’s known heartache, certainly, but nothing like what is to come. And still, he asks if things get better.

Sam doesn’t know what to tell him.

“Sam?”

He’s been silent too long. Dean is looking at him, concern written on his face differently than Sam is used to. Sam clears his throat, uncertain. “Uh, better is a bit of a relative term.” He ruffles through his hair unthinkingly, but when he sees Dean’s knuckles go white, he drops his hand quickly. “Some things are good. Some things, not so much. What I meant by better off was that we kinda have a sort of...home base. Somewhere to stay when we’re not out on the road for a case. Saves on the motel rooms. And we have a kitchen, so we can buy groceries and cook, instead of eating out all the time.” He smiles wryly. “You’d be surprised how much difference it makes for our non-existent bank accounts.”

“Seriously? You guys - we - have a - a home?” Dean’s face is rapt, joy suffusing his features, and for a second he looks so young that Sam’s heart aches. “How? Where?”

Sam shakes his head. “I can’t tell you, Dean, you gotta know that. It’s like Back to the Future. You can’t know too much.”

“Okay, okay,” Dean complains, but his face is still lit up like a candle and instead of aching, Sam’s heart has moved on to fluttering in his chest like a thousand butterflies. “But we cook? That’s so...domestic. I like it.”

“You do most of the cooking,” Sam says softly, figuring this is a safe enough topic, future-knowledge-wise. “You’ve really got a flair for it. It’s - ” he cuts off sharply, about to say “sexy” - “It’s really awesome.”

They’re back at the motel now, pulling into the same spot as before. Dean cuts the engine, but makes no move to get out of the car. He picks up the food and tray of drinks, setting them on the dashboard, and when he leans back, he shifts just slightly toward Sam. “What’s my specialty?” he asks, the Dean Winchester special grin spread wide across his face. Sam feels the butterflies kick into high gear.

“Breakfast,” he says, without thinking, and his voice dips lower than he intends as he pictures Dean in the Bunker’s kitchen, his dead guy robe tied loose over his low-slung boxer briefs, revealing his smooth chest and strong thighs, silver mixing bowl in his left hand, right hand a blur as he whips eggs into a frothing frenzy. Sam’s breathing picks up, his dick thickening in his jeans. He can feel Dean beside him, feel the heat coming off him in waves. He inhales deeply and can smell the subtle pine-scented cologne Dean stopped wearing after he returned from Purgatory. The scent lingers in his nose, bringing with it a flood of memories and Sam realizes he's trembling.

“Sam?” Dean's voice is close, soft and sweet in his ear, and Sam is lost.

Even as he reaches for Dean, a voice in his head is shrieking at him to stop: that Dean is inside that hotel room right now, no doubt in agony at having to resist the doe-eyed charms of Sam’s younger self, that even though this is _technically_ Dean, it isn’t _his_ Dean, so it’s pretty much cheating, that regardless of all those other points, it’s just fucking _wrong_.

Luckily, when his lips collide with the plush of his twenty-six year old brother’s, that voice falls silent.

Sam slides across the seat toward Dean, long-fingered hands wrapping around his upper arms, and drags him closer. Dean goes with a groan against Sam’s mouth, hissing against his lips in a ticklish buzz. “Fuck, Sam.” His voice has dropped an octave, rough with desire, and it sets off sparks under Sam’s skin, that pitch so familiar and beloved. Sam tangles their tongues together, licks his way into Dean’s mouth.

He pushes Dean down against the upholstery and thrills to the sensation of physically dominating his brother; he might have current Dean outstripped in height, but they’ve been at the same level in terms of pure physicality for years now. This Dean could and did handily kick Sam’s ass when they were their proper ages, but now he’s got twelve years advantage and damned if he isn’t going to make full use of it.

As earlier with the verbal dominance, Dean is one hundred percent on board. He struggles just a little in Sam’s hands, a sly smirk on his full lips, and Sam catches on; he tightens his grip, forces Dean downwards until they’re fully reclining, Sam blanketing Dean’s body with his own, hips crushing together. Sam dips down to bite at Dean’s throat and when he breathes in, the lapels of Dean’s leather jacket brush against his face and the touch nearly makes him cream his jeans. Jesus, how he’s missed that fucking jacket. He growls a little, low in his throat, and Dean gasps under him. “Oh God, Sam, fucking hell.”

“Gonna take care of you, Dean,” Sam breathes, wriggling a hand between them to grip his brother tight through his jeans. “No one takes care of you, do they? You take care of Sammy ‘cause that’s what you know, it’s all you’ve ever known, and he’s a fucking mess still. But who takes care of Dean? No one to make sure you’re okay, that you’re holding it together. Sammy’s still a selfish kid and he’s too wrapped up in himself and his own hurt to look beyond it. I know that now.” His hand works, strong and sure, and Dean’s breath is already hitching in his chest, hips bucking up to meet Sam’s touch.

Sam lets go, kisses the whine from Dean’s mouth, and moves his hand upward to unbuckle Dean’s belt. He drags the jeans down just far enough to wrangle Dean’s heated length from his boxers, and his big brother hisses as Sam’s hand wraps around him, flesh on flesh, and begins to stroke him in earnest.

Words are still pouring from Sam, like he’s confessing his sins. “Too much on your shoulders, big brother. Sammy, and Dad missing, and all the cases, people dying left and right, and you just want to save them all, ‘cause you feel like that’s all you’re good for and if you can’t do that, what are you worth?” He swipes his palm through the precome beading at the tip of Dean’s cock, smooths it down to slick his way.

Tears are leaking past the corners of Dean’s screwed-up eyes and he’s gone silent, all those delicious noises lost to nothing but harsh breaths tearing from his lungs. Sam’s hand is unstoppable, and his tongue is too. “You’re worth so much more, Dean, and Sammy’s too stupid right now to see that he needs to make you see it. Because if he doesn’t, if you keep valuing his life above your own, it’s gonna take you both to a place that you’ll never fully come back from.”

Sam tightens his grip and twists his wrist at the head and Dean bucks against him violently, body contorting almost like he’s in pain. “I’ve got you, Dean,” Sam whispers into his ear, biting the lobe just like he’d done with his Dean, knows just how sensitive a spot it is, and sure enough, Dean goes rigid below him, spilling hot and slick over Sam’s hand, over his own stomach. He pulses, long and deep, hips jerking against Sam’s hand as he works Dean through the aftershocks.

They stay slumped on the seat for a few minutes, until Dean’s breathing slows down to something that doesn’t look like his lungs are trying to part company with his chest. Sam gets the glove compartment open, retrieving a napkin, and he wipes them both down before tucking Dean back into his jeans. He pulls Dean up into a sitting position.

“Holy fuck, Sam,” Dean gets out. His voice is hoarse, wrecked. Wetness still lingers in the corners of his eyes. He’s staring at Sam like he can’t comprehend what just happened. He looks ruined and wanton and completely fucked-out. Sam can’t handle it.

“C’mon,” he hisses, breaking his words into terse pieces interrupted by kisses and nips at the swollen lips against his. He tugs Dean across the seat, opening the passenger door, the food abandoned on the dash. “Inside. Now.”

“But - Sammy and, and other me - ” Dean stutters as they stumble from the car, “aren’t they - won’t we - ”

Sam sucks a dark bruise into Dean’s pale flesh, just above his collarbone, over a smattering of freckles. “Trust me,” he says into that silken skin. “If we’ve gone this far, there’s no way they haven’t.” He raises his head, eyes locking with those blown-out green ones. “I know my brother. I know myself.”

He half-drags Dean the last few steps to the door and they stagger through, still joined at the mouth, to where their other selves wait.


	3. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who has left feedback here and on Tumblr, you are all wonderful people and I so appreciate your kind words. Hope this chapter will please you as much as your comments pleased me.
> 
> Enjoy!

The door closes and Dean can hear the Impala's engine roar to life, the sound growing quieter and quieter. A familiar voice breaks the freshly fallen silence.

“2017, huh?”

Younger Sam is still sitting on his bed, gazing back at him. Dean clears his throat as he moves back to his vacated chair. “Uh, yeah. 2017.”

“So you’re thirty-eight.”

“That’s right.” Dean’s not sure where this conversation is headed, but he doubts he’d be comfortable with any topic this baby-faced Sam might bring up.

“I guess he - I - told you not to tell me anything,” Sam goes on. Dean just nods. Sam snorts, and there’s all the sass Dean remembers. “Figures. Can’t spoil the fun to come, I guess. Although all these time travel rules never seem to make much sense.”

Dean doesn’t disagree. The paradoxes make his head hurt, so he tries not to think about them.

“Well, I don’t really wanna know anyways.”

It’s Dean’s turn to snort. Sam always wants to know, wants every bit of information he can get his hands on. He eyes Sam knowingly and the kid blushes under the stare. It’s adorable, and Dean closes his eyes and turns away.

He hears shuffling and suddenly there’s a presence at his side. “Okay, so I do want to know.”

He doesn’t dare open his eyes.

Then there’s a long-fingered hand on his jaw, turning his face. His eyes flutter open - stupid, so stupid, because that guileless, gorgeous face is right there, so fucking close, and he can’t help it, his body is trained to do only one thing when Sam looks at him like that and his poor dumb dick can’t tell the difference between Sam at twenty-two and Sam at thirty-four and it’s stirring restlessly in his jeans. “Two questions, Dean,” Sam whispers. “That’s it. Then I won’t bother you about anything else.”

Unlikely, but Dean’s not in a position to argue. “Okay,” he says, cursing the audible tremor in his voice.

“Do we get the demon?”

Dean jerks back a bit, surprised. That was not one of the questions he was anticipating. It makes sense, though, the longer he lets it sink in. Azazel - the Yellow-Eyed Demon - is this kid’s whole life right now. The only hunt that really matters, the only _thing_ that really matters. This Sam is still smarting from Jess and from their mother and everything is fresh and happening right now.

Thankfully, it’s an easy question to answer. “Yes,” he says, low and intense and he swears he didn’t mean to say it like that, but it’s too late, the damage is done, and he sees the effect his words and his voice have on Sam. His hands tighten, one on the arm of Dean’s chair and the other on Dean’s knee, and his eyes go dark. “Good,” he replies in the same tone of voice and Dean’s own muscles tense at the sound.

“Th-the other question?” Dean asks, mouth dry. He needs to get out of this chair, away from his sweet-faced baby brother. What he doesn’t need is to provoke Sam any further, because Sam’s a pig-headed, obstinate bastard and that is _not_ a trait he’s picked up later in life. He doesn’t remember Sam being this forward, and he realizes with a jolt that not only can this Sam read all the signs Dean’s been trying to keep locked down since they came face to face, but that he was also reading all the signs between Dean and his Sam, regular Sam, and can tell that the dynamic between them has shifted quite dramatically. Damn his genius brain.

“The other question is: how long do other you and I keep doing this dance?” Sam leans in close, and Dean is trembling now with the effort of keeping still. “You two look pretty...comfortable, so I’m guessing it’s been a while. But twelve years is a long time. I’d like to know how long we’ve got to keep this up - keep pretending we don’t see it, we don’t want it, that it’s not an inevitability.” He puts that hand back on Dean’s jaw and Dean can’t help the way his head tilts, angling himself just right to capture those unchanged lips. “Can you answer that for me, Dean?”

“Can’t,” Dean gets out. “You’ve seen Back to the Future. Can’t tell you anything that will affect your future, Doc.”

“Knew you’d say that,” Sam whispers and he comes closer, close enough for their lips to brush, just fleetingly. But it’s enough to snap whatever is holding Dean back and he lunges forward, bringing their lips together properly.

Sam gasps beneath the touch and Dean takes advantage of his open mouth to slip his tongue in. This Sam tastes like coffee and hope, where his Sam tastes like whisky and acceptance.

He gets his hands on his brother, drags him down into his lap and while this Sam is just about an inch shorter than he'll wind up being, he's light and whipcord thin. Dean recalls, even as he nips at that bitten lip, that this Sam hadn't eaten much after Jess, that Dean had had to coax food into him. He's maybe 170 pounds, but stretched thin over nearly six and a half feet, it doesn't amount to much.

His hands settle on those too-sharp hipbones and Sam moans around their tangled tongues. He grinds down into Dean, all angles and grabby hands and Dean wants to tell him to slow down, but he knows that this is the first taste that this Sam is getting and Dean can't deny him anything, has never been able to deny Sam anything, at any age.

They remain where they are, hands roaming. Dean gets a grip on that short hair; just the right length to use to his advantage, tugging until the boy gasps into his mouth, but not long enough that he ends up with a mouthful, which happens all too often with his Sam. He feels those long, slim fingers creeping tentatively under his shirt, brushing feather-light over his skin, up and across his nipples and he groans into the kiss that hasn't really ceased since it started and Sam echoes the sound.

Dean's had just about enough of this chair and he gets a better grip around that too-small waist and _lifts_. “Oh my God,” Sam breathes, breaking their lips apart with the words even as his mile-long legs wrap around Dean's hips.

Dean's bad knee creaks warningly but it's a short enough trip to the bed with Younger Sam's duffel on it. When he reaches it, he uses every pound of muscle that the sixteen years between them affords him and flings the slender boy onto the mattress. Sam stays where he's tossed on the pillows, chest heaving, enormous hazel eyes watching Dean, who is still and predatory with blown out eyes, at the end of the bed.

Sam's lips are moving and Dean has to focus, pushing past the sound of blood rushing in his ears, to hear the words. He realizes that the kid is just babbling, low and desperate, bits of words strung together: expletives, half-formed prayers, and Dean's name, over and over.

Dean knees up onto the bed, climbing the endless length of his brother's body until he's blanketing Sam fully, keeping his weight on his hands. He looms over Sam, who stares up wildly, falling silent. “Sammy,” Dean says, heated and deep, a pitch his younger self just can't pull off yet, and he's rewarded with the sight of Sam's eyes fluttering helplessly. “God,” Sam manages, hands coming up to grip Dean's biceps. “Say it again, please,” he begs, shameless and wanton, and Dean chuckles low in his throat. He dips down to brush his lips against the shell of Sam's ear. “Sammy…” he breathes out and Sam writhes beneath him like a live wire, moaning.

Sam's slim chest is heaving. He's tossing his messy head on the pillows. His hips are straining upwards, prominent bulge distending his jeans. Dean sits back on his haunches to take in the view.

When he's looked his fill at his extra-little brother, gasping and twitching beneath him, Dean swoops back in and sinks his teeth into the supple skin of Sam's neck. The kid practically howls at the touch and Dean worries the flesh just a bit before soothing it with his tongue. Sam's reactions are driving him out of his mind: Sam's always been receptive, but even the Sam two years older than this, when they'd first started messing around, had never fallen all to pieces this way. If Dean didn't know better, he'd think this Sam was a virgin. They haven't even taken any clothes off yet.

A point which Dean intends to remedy immediately. He pulls back again, yanks his flannel off, shucks his t-shirt, but before he can make a move on Sam's clothes, there's a sharp inhale from beneath him and suddenly long fingers are touching his skin all over.

Sam's tracing the scars, Dean quickly realizes. Dean hasn't had a new body since his return from Hell, and there's been enough damage done over the years since to shock a little brother who's never seen him like this. He stays as still as he can, letting Sam look and touch and trace his fill, but when Sam rears up and ducks his head to trail his tongue over a Purgatory remnant, Dean's self-control wavers.

A low growl vibrates from his chest as Sam's tongue circles a taut nipple. Sam hums in reply, digging in his his teeth, and the growl goes breathless as Dean inhales and tightens his hands around Sam's shoulders, holding him still. “Jesus, Sammy,” he grits out.

Sam wriggles under him and Dean's attention is dragged back to his iron-hard cock, which he wastes no time in grinding down against his brother's slim hips. Sam chokes against Dean's throat, where his mouth had been busy, and whines at the sensation. The sound goes straight to Dean's brain like a lethal injection and he puts both hands on Sam's chest and pushes him flat against the mattress, follows him down and shoves them together once more, slow dirty push of blood-thick flesh.

He starts a rhythm, languid and deep, rolling their bodies together even as his lips go back to work on the curve of Sam's neck, and he lets all of Sam's filthy noises fill his ears, drowning out the voice in his head that's telling him to _stopstopstop_.

His hips thrust again and Sam goes taut beneath him, mouth working soundlessly, and there's warm heat spreading between where their bodies are melded together and he realizes that Sam just tipped over the edge, just came in his jeans like an overexcited teenager, and the realization melts his brain into mush. “God, Sammy. You'll be the death of me, I swear.”

Suddenly, the door swings open and Sam and Dean's younger self stumble through the door. Dean rears up, ready to fling himself off the prone body of his brother, but the sight that meets his eyes is so unexpected that he’s frozen where he is, hovering above Sam.

Sam - his Sam - is tangled up with Younger Dean, their mouths sliding together. As the door swings shut behind them, Sam tears his lips away, leaving Younger Dean looking drunken and debauched, and looks over his shoulder at Dean and Younger Sam, a knowing smirk on his face. “See?” he says to Younger Dean, low and intimate. “I told you. There’s no way they could have resisted.”

Younger Dean peers around Sam’s frame, eyes wide at the sight of his brother beneath himself. “Sammy?” he asks, hunger mixing with surprise in his voice.

“Dean…” Younger Sam replies, soft and wanting. Dean can’t take the tension and he swings off the younger man, coming to sit on the edge of the bed, head in his hands.

He hears footsteps and looks up reluctantly to find his Sam towering over him, a strange look on his features. “Sammy, I’m sorry…” he trails off, unable to finish. Sam’s hand grips his jaw and he steels himself for a blow, no less than he deserves, but the hand just tilts his head up and their eyes meet.

“Don’t apologize,” Sam says quietly. “I had a feeling this would happen. I couldn’t resist either.” He looks away and Dean follows his gaze to where his younger self is still standing, staring at the tantalizing length of his little brother, breathless and ravaged, on the bed. Dean knows so well the expression on his younger features, knows exactly what’s going on inside his head. Sam’s fingers tighten on his jaw. “Dean,” he calls, and his voice is loud enough that Dean knows he’s not speaking to him.

Younger Dean looks over, guilt washing away anything else on his face. “Come here,” Sam instructs. The young man crosses the room warily, approaching the bed with apprehension. He joins them at the foot of the mattress, but his eyes are still fixed on Younger Sam’s body.

Sam lets go of Dean, slides a hand up Younger Dean’s chest. “I’ll teach you how to touch him,” he says, soft and tempting, and both Deans groan with desire. Sam pulls Younger Dean up onto the bed, and Dean twists around to watch.

 


	4. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go: the final chapter. Sorry it took so long, life got a bit crazy and I also have never written sex between multiple partners before. It's really hard keeping track of four people and sixteen limbs and trying to ensure that you give enough detail to explain what's happening without sounding really clinical.
> 
> Anyways, enough of my complaining about writing situations that I willingly put myself in. Also, please know that your comments and kudos give me so much inspiration. 
> 
> Enjoy!

 

Dean doesn't know how to process what's happening.

Never mind the time-travel-facilitated-by-a-nephilim crap that's enough to crack anyone's brainpan. He can deal with that. He's dealt with worse.

No, what he's having trouble with is the sight of his brother and his younger self further debauching the younger version of the brother he had just debauched himself.

His head isn't equipped to deal with such a situation. He doesn't blame himself: no one's is.

And yet, here he is. He watches as Sam and Younger Dean surround Younger Sam, who is still boneless on the mattress after Dean caused him to come in his jeans just moments ago. Younger Sam's eyelids flutter as he tries to swim up from under the waves of pleasure that wracked his body, only to find the older version of himself and the brother he's lusted after for years kneeling at his side, two sets of hungry eyes on him. Three, if you count Dean, shocked into non-movement at the end of the bed.

“Dean's already warmed him up for us,” Sam says softly in Younger Dean's ear. “But that's okay. He's young. He'll bounce back quickly.”

He takes Younger Dean's hand in his own and presses it down over the dark, damp fabric at the crotch of Younger Sam's jeans. Both of the younger selves inhale sharply and Dean's dick, still aching in his own jeans, swells impossibly.

“De,” Younger Sam chokes, pushing his hips up into the touch.

Younger Dean's face is a study in tortured longing. The big brother gene wins out and he speaks, rough and low. “Sammy. Is this what you want? What you really want?”

In reply, Sammy struggles to an upright position and reaches out to grab De’s collar, pulling at him until they're nose to nose. Sam sits back, slanting a look over at Dean, the two of them waiting for their younger selves to take the next step.

“Do you want this?” Sammy says, soft and intense. De shivers at the sound. “More than anything,” he manages. “For so long.”

“Why didn't you say so?” Sammy asks, gentle but serious. He puts one long-fingered hand on De’s cheek and Dean feels the echo of that same touch on his own skin. When De turns helplessly into the contact, eyes slipping closed, Dean has to look away.

“Didn't want to fuck things up,” he hears De say, wretched and barely audible. “Couldn't put this on you. Our lives...I had to give you a chance to be normal. You've always wanted normal.”

“I wanted _you_ ,” Sammy says intensely. “Forget normal. We've never been normal. We never will be.” He looks over at Sam and Dean, silent watchers of the drama playing out. “How bad was it?” he asks them. He doesn't elaborate and Dean sees Sam's brow furrow in confusion, but he knows exactly what Sammy is talking about.

“Torture,” he replies hoarsely, throat closing at the memory of all the wasted years, all the silent suffering, all the agony and despair and self-loathing. Sam's expression clears and he reaches out for Dean's hand, but stays quiet, letting Dean speak. “Look, I'm not tryin’ to influence you guys. Hell, we don't even know what will happen if things change right now. But if I could go back…” His eyes lock with De’s, emerald on emerald. “I wouldn't waste one second more.”

De turns away from his older self, back to the insistent eyes of his little brother. “I did fuck you up,” he says brokenly. “Somehow, I...I did the wrong things, made you want the wrong things. I’m sorry, Sammy. I’m so sorry.” His head drops forward, heavy on his neck, and Dean watches Sammy’s heart break, written plain on his young features. His eyes turn to Dean, pleading, begging him to intercede; if Sammy can’t get through to De, maybe Dean can.

For the sake of the desperate look on that beloved face, Dean gives in. He fists his hand in De’s shirt, yanking him around to face himself, literally. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You did what you could. You did more than that: you gave him everything. You went without when there wasn’t enough for both of you. You kept Dad off his back as much as you could. You taught him everything important he’s ever learned.”

De is shaking his head, refusing to meet Dean’s gaze, but Dean goes on. “ _Listen_ to me. I’m telling you: you didn’t fuck up. But I can’t make you believe that. If you really think you did Sammy wrong, then that’s it.” He shakes De once, sharply, before reaching out to grip his chin, raising his head so their eyes meet again, a harsher version of Sammy’s tender touch. “But you gotta forgive yourself, man,” he says roughly. “You don't and you'll keep making bad choices, for a long time. I'm still making them to this day, because I never let it go. And not only will it hurt you, it'll hurt him.” He nods toward Sam and Sammy and De looks past him to them, then back again, eyes glassy and full of longing.

Dean's running on pure instinct now, abandoning himself to his first inclinations, and it's the dropping of those barriers within himself that spur him forward, cause him to capture De’s lips with his own, one hand cupping the back of De’s neck, the other still tangled in the fabric of his shirt. De gasps under his mouth, but responds just the way Dean knew he would, just the way he would himself, and it's so odd to kiss someone who knows your moves practically before you do.

Dimly he hears Sam's voice, like he's far away or underwater, even as his tongue dances with De’s. “Look at them, Sammy,” Sam encourages, voice rough. “Have you ever seen such beautiful creatures?” Dean hears Sammy moan and he's dying to see what Sam is doing to coax such a sound out of the younger man, but De is trembling in his grip, chest heaving against his, and Dean just drags him closer, mouths sliding together, like he can kiss the doubt and insecurity and endless self-denial out of his younger self.

De groans against their joined lips, hands straying to Dean’s shoulders, where his fingers dig in like Dean’s a life preserver. He presses closer and Dean lets go from where he’s still gripping De’s shirt tightly, bringing his hand around to the small of De’s back, pushing them closer still, until it feels like they’re trying to climb inside each other’s skin. He knows what De wants, knows that he wants to be held hard and tight, with a strength and power that’s been always been missing, that all the girls he’s slept with just can’t manage. Dean might be more dominant with Sam, but that dynamic has developed over the years, and when he was this young, all he craved was someone to take care of him, hold him close, make him feel loved and cherished and protected.

He breaks the hold long enough to yank De’s shirt over his head, feeling De’s inhale as their bare chests rub together, skin on skin. Dean wraps his arms back around himself and dives back in, keeping De trapped in his powerful embrace and latching onto De’s earlobe, knowing full well how sensitive it is. De gasps at the touch, the sound cracked and broken, and gets his hands on Dean’s hips, grinding them together.

Dean shifts his grip, pushing down until De is flat on his back beneath him, panting and flushed. “Please, please,” De gasps, eyes wide and ribs heaving with desperate breaths. “I need - ” he cuts himself off and Dean knows what he needs, what he’s begging for, and he’s been told quite a few times to go fuck himself but he doesn’t know if he can literally do it.

And then Sam is beside him, naked and warm, having stripped all his clothes off at some point, nudging him gently aside. “Take care of Sammy,” he says with a shark’s smile and those oh-so-familiar words strike Dean low in his belly, just like Sam knew they would. Dean knees his way across the bed toward the headboard, where Sammy is still watching with wide hazel eyes. He reaches for Dean with hungry hands, dragging Dean down to sprawl beside him. Dean leans in to kiss him, to taste that pink mouth, but Sammy evades him, whispers in his ear instead. “Wait. I wanna watch.”

Dean bites his lip in agony. He knew, of course, that he’d always been helpless to refuse his little brother anything, but it’s never been so plainly obvious before: not with two of them here, breath hot in his ear and demands so sweetly disguised as begging.

He rolls over Sammy to recline behind him, sliding a hand up and down quivering flanks as they watch Sam kneel above a writhing De. Sam drags De closer, pulling his jeans and boxers down and tossing them aside. “I know what you need, big brother,” Sam croons, fingers teasing over De’s cock, hard and weeping. De whimpers, head tossing from side to side.

Sam brings his hand to De’s mouth, brushing those same fingers over plush lips. “Suck,” Sam commands and even as De’s lips part to accept Sam’s touch, Dean feels his own tongue sweep obediently over his lips. Beside him, Sammy makes a noise of want and pushes backward against Dean’s body. Dean moves the hand still stroking idly up and down Sammy’s side, reaching around to unbutton his jeans and slide his hand inside, pulling them and Sammy's damp boxers down and off those mile-long legs. His fingers close firmly around Sammy’s dick, eager and hard once more.

Sam pulls his dripping fingers from De’s mouth and brings his hand down to between De’s spread legs. Dean and Sammy watch as he circles De’s shy hole with one wet digit before pressing gently inwards. De inhales sharply at the sensation, his hips shoving upward helplessly. Sam pushes them back down with a firm hand low on De’s belly, and presses deeper into that virgin muscle, working the finger in shallow thrusts. De grabs Sam’s forearm, fingers digging into flesh. “More, please,” he begs, and Dean’s own hole tightens in shared need, as his hand on Sammy’s cock picks up speed.

De keens loudly as Sam adds a second finger, scissoring them to work him open, get him ready. Dean watches with interest as a deep flush spreads over De’s pale, freckled skin; starting at his ears, it skims across his face and down his neck, spreading over his chest. Dean’s felt that same glow travel over his body, but he’s never seen it before. He knows exactly the feelings that are coursing through his younger self right now and they’re echoing in him: he can feel his own ears start to heat up. He tightens his arm around Sammy, hand still working his cock, drags him closer so Dean can push his own still-neglected arousal between Sammy’s pliant asscheeks. Sammy moans beneath him, grinding back onto the hard, heated flesh. “Dean, God…” 

Across the bed, just scant feet away, Sam has added a third finger to De, whose hand gropes blindly for his rampant dick. Sam captures the seeking hand and holds it still. “No,” he says darkly. “Want you to come just on my fingers, big brother, or on my cock. No touching yourself.”

“Sam,” De begs, eyes rolling back, but Sam is inexorable. He guides De’s hand to his own cock. “If you need to touch, touch me,” Sam orders and De’s hand moves immediately, working Sam’s hard-on desperately, like it can slake his own desire.

A few minutes more, and Sam snags De’s wrist, stopping his movement. “Enough,” he says, and pulls his fingers from De’s body with a wet sound that makes all three of the others gasp. Sam holds out the same hand, fingers pruny, waiting silently. Dean reacts instantly, letting go of Sammy, who whines in reproach, and reaches for the bottle of lube that Sam must have put on the bedside table. He places the bottle in Sam’s outstretched hand and their fingers tangle for a brief second. When Dean drops his hand, Sammy grabs it and brings it to his mouth, kitten-licking Dean’s skin where it had touched Sam’s, still wet from De’s body. Dean grunts as Sammy laps greedily at his fingers, searching for a taste of his brother.

Sam slicks his cock quickly before shoving De’s legs wider apart, positioning himself with his dripping head against De’s opening. “Ready?” he asks, words directed at De, but eyes focused on Dean and Sammy, watching hungrily. “Please,” De whispers in response, and like Sam, his gaze is directed to where his little brother and his older self are watching him. Sam growls low in his throat and pushes in, breaching De with just the tip of his cock, and the younger man cries out. Sam pushes deeper, sliding in until he’s flush against De’s ass, buried to the hilt in his brother. Without warning, he draws back and thrusts home again.

“God,” Sammy whispers beneath Dean, dragging Dean’s hand back to his erection. “I never…” His words trail off into a breathy moan as Dean brushes his thumb over the weeping slit of Sammy’s cock. De echoes the sound as Sam plunges into him once more.  

Dean works Sammy, hand hard and fast on his dick, until his eyes are drawn by the line of De’s throat, open and exposed, his head shoved back against the mattress as Sam fucks into him again and again. De’s mouth is open as ragged groans escape him with each thrust of Sam’s hips, pink lips quivering, and Dean gets an idea. He stops his hand and Sammy whines. “Go,” Dean hisses in Sammy’s pink shell ear. “Sit on his face.”

He hears Sam’s throaty growl of approval as Sammy struggles shakily to his knees, making his way precariously across the bed. He kneels beside De’s head and makes to straddle him, facing away from them, but Sam’s terse voice stops him. “Wrong way, Sammy. We want to see your pretty face.”

Sammy turns, until his ass is poised above his big brother’s face. He lowers himself carefully down and De’s hands reach up blindly, seeking and finding Sammy’s slim hips. De pulls him down further and Dean can see his pink tongue darting out, delving between Sammy’s spread cheeks. Sam thrusts again into De’s body, forcing a muffled groan out of him that obviously does wonders for Sammy, who gasps prettily at the touch, head dropping backward, heavy on his neck.

De’s fingers are digging into the flesh on Sammy’s hips, making pretty red marks that Dean reaches out to trace. Taking his cue from his older self, Sammy matches the rhythm that Sam has set as he fucks into De, and he grinds himself down against his brother’s mouth.

Dean has been hard for hours, since Sammy got too close and started asking too many of the wrong questions, and his agony has reached the breaking point. He shucks his pants and boxer briefs quickly, then kneels perpendicular to the tangle of limbs that is the other three and takes himself in hand, finally. Sam’s eyes bore into him as he strips his aching cock, hard and fast, and in seconds he’s nearly there. Sam grins wolfishly at him, then thrusts into De with a twist of his hips that Dean knows for a fact will nail a prostate with deadly accuracy. De’s gasped curse is muffled between Sammy’s cheeks, a movement that makes the younger boy howl and Dean is lost, that chain reaction of pleasure bringing him to a desperately-needed climax. He spills over his fist, hot, creamy ropes of come spurting out where he’s kneeling over De’s taut stomach, dripping down to pool on the miles of skin below.  

“Did you see that, Sammy?” Sam purrs, voice filtering through the rush of white noise filling Dean’s ears. “Did you see your big brother come? Pity he had to take care of himself. That should have been your job. Didn’t he take good care of you earlier?”

“Ye-yes,” Sammy pants, even as he screws his eyes shut, pushing down into the relentless swipes of De’s tongue.

“Clean it up, at least,” Sam orders, and Sammy obeys, tipping forward to lick at the stripes of come. De whimpers at the touch of his little brother’s tongue, warm and wet on the quivering muscles of his stomach, even as he works his own tongue deeper into Sammy’s body.

Sam catches Dean’s eye, one brow arched questioningly, but Dean just shakes his head, sinking back onto the bed. If he was still De’s age, he’d be raring and ready to go again, what with the live porn show right in front of him, but he’s pushing forty and everything he’d ever heard about refractory periods is unfortunately true. Still, doesn’t mean he can’t stay involved. He grabs the lube and slicks his fingers, scooching across the bedspread until he can reach Sam’s hips, still thrusting into De with powerful strokes. He wriggles a finger between Sam’s tightly clenched cheeks, fighting his way in until he brushes against Sam’s hole. Sam growls, casting a hot glance over his shoulder down at Dean, who grins up at him and works the finger deeper. Sam arches his back as he pulls back from De’s body, opening himself up to Dean’s touch, and when he thrusts back in, Dean goes with the movement, crooking his finger upwards in search of that bundle of nerves.

Sammy has licked De clean of Dean’s spunk, and he looks up at Sam, waiting for the next move. But Sam’s eyes are closed, lost in the double pleasure of De’s tight clutch around his cock and Dean’s fingers stroking his insides. Dean leans around Sam’s body, eyes locking with Sammy. “Come down here,” Dean says, low and rough, and Sammy straddles his way down De’s torso. Dean gropes around with his free hand, fumbling with the lube until his fingers are dripping, and reaches out to slide his hand over De’s cock, hard and weeping against his stomach. De cries out, hips stuttering, and Dean withdraws his hand; he doesn’t want to make De come, not yet.

“Wait,” he hisses in Sam’s ear, and Sam shudders to a halt, thighs flush against De’s as he pauses. Dean feels Sam clench tight around his fingers, buried just as deep as Sam is in De. Dean bites at Sam’s shoulder, golden skin hot and smooth under his mouth.

De has calmed down, as much as he can with Sam still in him to the hilt, and Dean lifts his lips from Sam’s skin. “Ride him,” he says to Sammy, tugging at those skinny hips until Sammy is poised above De’s dripping crown. He shifts his grip to De’s cock, holding it steady as Sammy sinks down, breaching the first ring of muscle with a cry.

“Oh my God,” De whimpers as Sammy pushes down further, spearing himself open on his brother’s dick. “Oh my God.”

Sammy bottoms out, eyelids fluttering at the sensation of his body enveloping De, tight and hot and unreal. He puts his hands on De’s knees where they’re bent up, held firm in Sam’s grip, to steady himself, and then he rises up and sinks down again. “ _Sammy,_ ” De cries out, hoarse and wrecked, and Dean can hear the burn of tears in that cry.

“Jesus,” Sam whispers, clenching around Dean again at the sight laid out before them. Dean grins into Sam’s shoulder. “Okay, go,” he hisses, and Sam pulls out and thrusts back into De, the motion driving De’s cock up into Sammy. Dean can’t see De around Sam and Sammy, but he hears him moaning, lost to the insanity of what’s happening to him.

Sammy rises and falls on De’s dick to the rhythm of Sam fucking into De’s ass, and he stares down into Dean’s face as he moves, eyes glassy and heavy with rapture. Dean stretches up to grab his chin, tangling their tongues, messy and sloppy as they all move together.

“God, fuck,” De is sobbing, the most vocal of all of them. “Can’t take it anymore, please,” he begs, voice cracking, caught between the rocking motions of Sam and Sammy. He sounds out of his mind with pleasure, and the pleading words are making Dean hard again. He shifts until his dick is pressed against Sam’s thigh, the friction just enough in combination with the chorus of moans all around him. He twists his fingers inside Sam, stroking hard against his prostate, and whispers into Sam’s ear. “Finish it, Sam.”

Sam snarls and goes for broke, slamming hard into De. Dean rubs once more over that knot of nerves and Sam locks down around his fingers as he comes, hissing between his teeth, pulsing deep into De’s channel. De arches his hips upwards and Sammy cries out atop him, come shooting from his untouched dick to splatter over Sam’s chest and Dean’s face. Dean grinds himself into Sam’s tensed thigh, licking at his own lips where Sammy’s come painted him in white, and tumbles over the edge, spurting out over Sam’s leg.

De is sobbing wordlessly as he shoves into Sammy one last time, and Dean watches Sammy’s face contort as De fills him up, come leaking down onto De’s hips, dripping down his crack to pool where Sam is still buried deep inside.

They’re all frozen where they are, chests heaving and sweat dripping, trying to claw their way back to the surface. Sammy moves first, swinging down off the piles of bodies, uttering a soft sound as he slips off De’s spent dick and a warm trickle of come seeps out of him. Dean withdraws his fingers from Sam’s ass, leaving him with a familiar pat to his left asscheek, a move years old. Sam gives him an arch look over his shoulder as he disengages from De’s body, groaning as he moves his legs, thighs tight and cramped from the long time spent in one position.

De remains where he is, sprawled with legs spread wide, dripping with Sam and Sammy’s come as well as his own. His head is thrown back, eyes screwed shut, and his chest hitches with silent sobs, wracking his frame. Sammy crawls to his side, concern on his face. “Dean,” he says, soft and careful, touching a gentle hand to De’s twisted lips. “Dean, c’mon, don’t,” he urges quietly. Dean feels a matching tightness forming in his own chest as he stares down at his younger self, and he turns away sharply, retreating to the bathroom and returning with warm, wet towels.

Sam meets him at the door, taking a towel from his hands and dropping to one knee. He wipes Dean down lovingly, drops a kiss on his soft dick, before rising back to his feet. He dips his head to drop a matching kiss, soft and light, on Dean’s lips. Dean lets his mouth quirk upwards at the touch, knowing that Sam can read his mind as well as ever, and is trying to distract him from the drama unfolding back on the bed.

Sam brings the other towel to Sammy, who takes it wordlessly and passes it gently over De’s skin, echoing the movements of his older self seconds ago. When De is clean, Sammy wipes himself quickly and tosses the towel aside, then curls himself over De’s limp body. “Dean, please,” he whispers into De’s neck. “Don’t cry.”  

Sam pulls the cover off the empty bed and drapes it over Sammy and De, shielding them from view. Sammy flashes a silent look of gratitude and crowds in closer to De, stroking through the velvet brush of his cropped hair.

Dean turns away, lost in his own thoughts.

* * *

It’s hours later, the room dark and quiet. Jack hasn’t come for them, and Dean wishes he would, wants to get out of here. He feels drained and empty at the night’s events. He and Sam are curled on the far bed, waiting listlessly, but the unmoving shapes in the other bed keep drawing his eye and he climbs to his feet.

He stares down at Sammy and De, nestled together like sleeping kittens. He feels Sam at his side, feels Sam’s lips brush over his neck. “Do you think we fucked them up?” Dean asks quietly, echoing De’s earlier words, and he feels Sam’s mouth halt on his skin.

“Do you?” Sam murmurs into him. Dean can’t look away from the sight of himself and his little brother, sated and still, curled against each other in a way that looks just as natural as it feels when it’s him and Sam.

“I dunno,” Dean replies. “I can’t think of how it’ll change anything.” He thinks back to the case they had just wrapped, Sarah and the haunted painting. It wouldn’t be long now before they met up with Dad again, before Dad got possessed by Azazel, before the truck smashed into them and put himself into a coma and Dad in a position to sacrifice himself for his eldest son.

“Dad’ll sell his soul. He’ll - ” he looks down at himself, so young and innocent looking. “I’ll feel awful about it. Azazel will rally the other special kids. We’ll end up at Cold Oak. You’ll - ” it’s been years but his throat still closes at the images in his head, kneeling in the mud with Sam’s body limp and empty against him - “You’ll die and I’ll sell my soul, and we’ll look for a solution. There won’t be one. Only this time it won’t take a bottle of whiskey at two minutes till midnight. We’ll - they’ll - already be there.”

He shifts, the press of Sam’s body warm against his. “Us - them - being...together earlier than it should have been: I don’t think it’ll cause them to make any decisions different from what we made. If anything, it’ll solidify them.” He grips Sam tighter, pulls him closer. “If we already had this and you died, all I would have done is sell my soul that much faster. Wouldn’t’ve taken three days.”

Sam strokes his head, comforting him through the pain that had never really gone away, only lessened as the years went on. “What do you think Jack sent us here for?” Sam says softly, lips moving against Dean’s bare shoulder. Dean snorts softly. “Fuck if I know. Maybe he didn’t want to pay for porn.”

“You think he watched?” Sam says, mildly aghast. “Think he can do that?”

“He’s the son of the Devil, who knows what he can do? He didn’t appear to break a sweat sending us here. And for all we know, he could have watched - could be watching right now. Maybe he gets off on it.”

Sam furrows his brow. “That seems kinda...blasphemous.”

“Yes, because I’ve always cared so much about not being offensive to divine beings.”

“Shh,” Sam admonishes at the sound of Dean’s raised voice, as the boys on the bed stir restlessly. They watch as De curls himself tighter around his little brother’s body, protective even in sleep. “Did you always look at me the way he looks at Sammy?” Sam whispers. “Like I’m your whole world?”

“Always.” Dean’s voice, lowered in deference to the sleeping boys on the bed, is fierce nonetheless.

Sam’s smile is wistful. “I thought it was just me.”

Before Dean can reply, a rumble shakes the room, the floor vibrating under their feet, and a starburst of light appears a few feet away. A figure in the centre of the light, dark with glowing golden eyes, holds out a hand, and Sam and Dean feel the familiar sensation of being whisked through time and space.

In the darkness of the motel room, Sammy and De sleep on, safe in each other’s embrace.  


End file.
